


somebody else

by isawet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Background Ranya, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-05 15:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: "An accident causes Lexa to lose her memories -- including those of the woman she loves."A commission, who asked for Lexa amnesia and angst with a happy ending.





	1. i took all my things that make sounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soclose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soclose/gifts).



> thank yous to my wonderful smurf beta who doesn't even care about the 100 you guys but she betas and helps me think of scenes and plot :3
> 
> a commission for someone who was wonderful enough to pay me to complete this fic, which started as a tumblr prompt and grew into almost 17k. they asked not to be named, and I've gifted this to ange because she helped me rework the choppy beginning especially!

She’s been dodging her mother for an hour, arms full of charts, scuttling between break rooms and lounges and on call closets. Her mother’s got that pinched look, Clarke ducking down and watching her go by through the window, frowning and harried. 

Raven calls her and the vibration makes her jump. She accepts the call, pinching it between her cheek and shoulder as she gathers up the charts she’d dropped diving out of view. “Hey, you’re lucky you got me,” she greets, scrambling for the papers. “Have you heard from Lexa? She hasn’t answered any of my ca-”

“Clarke,” Raven says, quiet and heavy. “Clarke.”

The way Raven’s voice wobbles and pitches, it’s--Clarke feels it like a hush on the water. A stillness settles into her bones and she can hear the soft whistle of her breath on the inside of her teeth. 

“There’s been an accident,” Raven says, more gentle than Clarke has ever heard her. She swallows, audible through the connection. “It’s Lexa.”

 

There's an odd ringing in her ears that drowns out the rest of Raven's words. She moves the phone away from her ear to wiggle a finger in the beginning of the canal, shaking her head sideways like she’s gotten water in her ear. When she presses the phone back into place Raven has finished talking. 

“Okay,” Clarke says, after a long long silence. 

“Oh--okay?”

“Okay,” Clarke repeats, very calm. “I have to go now.”

“Clarke--wait--”

“I have to call Anya,” Clarke tells her, and lays the phone facedown on the table. Raven’s voice echoes from it, tinny and from a great distance, and Clarke stands. She looks at her paperwork spread out around her and realizes her pen is still in her hand, so she caps it and lays it down carefully.

She finds a nurse in the hall. “I have to go,” she tells him.

“Clarke, it’s me,” he responds, grabbing her elbow.

“Oh.” Clarke blinks rapidly, Lincoln’s face becoming clear and familiar in front of her; the haze clearing. “Yes, sorry. My charts are--” She looks up and down the hallway, disoriented. “They’re, uh.”

“It’s alright.” He starts to walk her down towards the elevators, careful touch and gentle nudges. “She’s in the ICU.” Clarke’s knees buckle for a half-second, then she rallies. Takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. 

“Okay.”

//

Clarke chews her nails down until the tips of her fingers ache, the nailbeds raggedy and torn and painful. The waiting room is quiet, and Clarke thinks about it again, the wind going still on the river. A hush on the water and waiting for the other shoe to drop. She watches the other people fidget, tap at their phones, even fall asleep, the restless twitching doze of the exhausted.

Raven sits next to her. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Octavia’s on detention this month. She’ll be here soon as she can.”

“It’ll be hours,” Clarke says, hollow. “Hours and hours.” Of this room, with the outdated magazines and the trickle of people in and out. Gurgle of the water cooler in the corner and the tick of the clock on the wall. Clarke and her torn nails and the waiting.

 

“They’re called Burr Holes,” she tells Raven, when she can’t stop her knee from jumping and bumping the magazine in her lap to the ground.

Raven looks up from where she’s staring blankly at a back issue of Home and Garden. “What?”

“Burr Holes,” Clarke repeats. “They--they drill them through the skull and insert tubes. To drain.”

Raven is quiet for a stretch. Clarke chews on the tip of her thumb. “I keep,” Raven says, an odd lilt to her voice. “I keep thinking about the day after we met. The morning after move in day. I woke up late; she was already up. I called her Alexa by mistake while we were plugging in the mini-fridge.”

Clarke half-smiles. “She hates that.”

“We went to the dollar store and she bought those magnets, the tiny ones with the letters. We kept them all the semesters we lived together, the little fridge and then the real one, in the apartment. Lost a lot of them, but I still have some. At Anya’s.”

Clarke picks up her magazine and puts it back on the little table between the rows of chairs. “She never got you back for that Alexa thing?”

“No, she did. Called me different bird names for years and years. I think I’m still in her phone as ‘Rhea’. But I just keep thinking about those stupid magnet letters on our dorm room fridge.”

Raven’s exhale is shaky. She shoves her hair out of her face and shakes herself a little. Clarke takes her hand and their grip is matching; white knuckled and cold sweat. When the surgeon comes out and calls Clarke’s name, her fingers have gone numb. Raven lets go and the blood rushes back, slowly and then all at once; a pulsing wave.

//

Raven stops just outside Lexa’s room. Her limp got bad in the elevator and worse down the hallway, her fingertips shaking and paler than Clarke has ever seen her. “I, uh--I, um.”

Abby was waiting outside, and she turns to Raven, concerned, but Clarke waves her away. “It’s alright,” she tells Raven. “I know.”

Raven swallows, her eyes skittering away from Clarke’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Clarke fumbles in her pocket for a few crumpled bills. “Grab me a coffee?”

Raven nods, shoving the money into her jacket and backing up towards the stairwell. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

 

Lexa is paler than pale, not just wan but sallow, sickly. Clarke touches the bandages at her temple with trembling fingers and knows the hair is shaved underneath. Her mother is speaking behind her, hovering at her shoulder, something about relieving pressure and medically induced coma, and it turns into white noise, high pitched and disappearing under the click-whoosh of the ventilator and the thrum of the machine, the _beep beep_ of the monitors. Lexa is so still, a shade of herself. A sob rips from Clarke’s chest and her knees give out abruptly--she thinks distantly that it’ll hurt when she hits the ground and it’s only when the sensation of falling stops that she realizes her mother has caught her. 

 

Clarke comes back to herself in the chair by the door, the plastic squeaking as she tries to lift her head from between her knees and can’t. She’s sucking in big lungfuls of air and still feels like she’s suffocating, and her mother’s hand prickles when it rubs on her back. She cringes from it and exhales loudly through her mouth. She wants to tell her mother about how she ate cereal for breakfast that morning and texted Lexa a picture with the spoon stuck in her mouth and how last weekend Lexa had said she was going to frame the picture of them from college, babyfaced and smiling at each other. Clarke wanted it in their bedroom; Lexa had lobbied for the mantel in the living room. They’d had a proper argument out of it, somehow, accidentally dredging up old disagreements and glaring at each other and walking away in a huff before Clarke crawled into bed later that night and laid a hesitant hand on Lexa’s hip and Lexa turned around to kiss Clarke’s shoulder and hook her foot over Clarke’s ankle and play her fingers through Clarke’s hair until she fell asleep. 

 

“Clarke?” Bellamy is peeking into the private room, looking uncomfortable. He shuffles inside and shuts the door. “Octavia will be here as soon as she can. Raven called me.”

Clarke slips out from under her mother’s oppressive concern and stumbles into his chest. “Lexa,” she manages to choke out, and then squeezes her eyes shut and bites her tongue so she won’t cry. 

His arms close around her, easing her weight. “Hey, okay. It’s alright.” He walks her to Lexa’s bedside, hooking his foot around a chair leg and dragging it over. He settles her into it--Lexa’s hand, limp and pale, is huge in Clarke’s field of view. She closes her own hand over Lexa’s wrist and brushes her thumb over the weak flutter of Lexa’s pulse. Bellamy and her mother talk, stilted and hushed, behind her, and Clarke adjusts the thin blanket rumped at Lexa’s waist. 

“I have to call Anya,” she says, making them fall quiet. “I have to--” she touches her pocket. “My phone, I don’t know where my phone--”

“I’ll call her,” Bellamy offers. The door swishes open and shut. 

“Hi, baby,” Clarke murmurs. Kisses the inside of Lexa’s wrist, careful not to tangle the tubes and the monitoring wires. “I’m here.”

“You know she won’t wake up for at least a day.” Her mother touches her shoulder. “You know that, Clarke. There’s things you need to take care of.”

Clarke touches her nose to the center of Lexa’s palm, along her lifeline. “I’ll kick you out,” she promises, soft and pitched low. “I’ll call security Mom, I swear to god I will.”

Her mother sighs. “I’ll get her doctor,” she says, and the door opens and shuts again.

//

Clarke knows Lexa’s primary care doctor, distantly. Seen him around, at meetings, in the break rooms and on elevators. Never talked to him much; it’s a big hospital. She lets him go on for a while before she snaps. “Just stop it.”

He blinks. “Ms. Griffin, I--”

“Doctor. It’s _Doctor_ Griffin. So stop with the coached language and tell me what we’re looking at for recovery.”

He sighs. “You know how head injuries are. It’s not good, but it’s not the worst. We’ll know more when she wakes up--tomorrow, if everything goes well.”

Clarke frowns at where Lexa’s eyelids are closed and still. “I want to talk to neuro.”

“Clarke,” Abby breaks in. “You know how it goes.”

Clarke presses the knuckle of her thumb between her eyebrows. “I wasn’t kidding about throwing you out of here.”

“Clarke, this is no time for drama--”

“Are you fucking serious?” Clarke points at a nurse looking slightly frozen in the act of checking Lexa’s vitals. “You. Get me a security guard.”

“Dr. Griffin. I promise, as soon as she wakes up, I’ll have a consult down for a treatment plan.”

“Fine,” Clarke snaps. “Fine. Good.” She strides across the room and bats the nurse’s hands away from where he was readjusting Lexa’s IV. “I’ll do that.”

//

“Clarke,” Raven says, hesitant. “Clarke, maybe--”

“Don’t.”

“Clarke--”

“I threw my mother out and I’ll do the same to you.” Clarke flickers her eyes to where Anya is walking around to Lexa’s bedside. “Both of you.”

“You could try.” Anya’s voice is flat. “You may be the name on the papers, but if you think you’re throwing me out of here--” she stops talking, abrupt. “Let’s--not. Not here.”

There’s a long silence. Raven’s hand hovers over Clarke’s shoulder before it drops again.

“Not here,” Clarke agrees. She kicks a chair out and Anya sits.

Raven sighs. “Food. Clothes. And when I get back with them, you’ll take turns going to shower. And I’m bringing Octavia back with me, and you will not throw things, _Clarke_. And you will not tell the doctors they’re incompetent children, _Anya_.”

The door opens and closes again.

Anya sits near Lexa’s knee, a large blur in Clarke’s peripheral vision. “You threw things at Octavia?”

“And Lincoln.”

“They are incompetent children.” Anya curls her hand over Lexa’s ankle. “The doctors.”

“They’re all older than you.”

“And?” 

Clarke turns her head to look; Anya’s face is pale and her eyes are tired and there are fine lines around her mouth. Her hair is falling out of its braid. “And they’re incompetent children.”

Anya smiles, thin. They sit and wait.

//

Lexa wakes up at a quarter to midnight on a Tuesday. Clarke was asleep when it happened, but Anya tells her that Lexa’s eyes fluttered open and she made weak noises until Anya woke up and called a nurse.

When Clarke woke they were checking Lexa’s vitals. Her eyes were unfocused and slow when they tracked the doctor’s pen and her breathing was ragged and dragging. She licked her lips and Clarke swayed towards her, Lexa’s hand still limp in hers. 

“Anya,” Lexa rasps. 

“Don’t fuss for attention,” Anya says, from where she’s holding Lexa’s other hand. “You’re not a child.” The relief has creased her face in a smile she can’t seem to tamp down.

“Anya,” Lexa repeats, a little stronger. 

Clarke is listening to the doctor and wiping at her eyes and she barely hears it the first time, Lexa’s rough whisper _\--is that?_. She turns. “What, baby? Are you in pain?” She takes a purposeful step towards the doctor and his eyes go wide as he retreats. “She’s in pain, do something.”

Lexa coughs once, weakly, still looking at Anya. “Who,” she repeats. “Who is that?”

Clarke turns. “Dr. Litman? He’s a specialist, he flew in--”

Lexa’s eyes focus on hers, hazy but cognizant. “You. Who are you?”

//

Octavia finds Clarke ripping apart the master bedroom. “Uhh--”

“I haven’t gone crazy.” Clarke straightens from where she’s knee deep in the walk in closet near the master back. “I know it--” she casts a quick look around the room “--really looks like I have. I even maybe kind of feel like I have. But I haven’t.”

“I--”

“I haven’t, Octavia, okay? And I waited through the neuro tests and she didn’t--she only asked for Anya. And I waited for five more hours, and she still only wanted Anya. So just--just stop distracting me.” Clarke disappears back into the boxes, digging through them with a dogged determination. She finishes with the last box and rubs at her forehead. “Where the fuck is it… where the _fuck_ \--” Her eyes land on a box on a high shelf in the closet. “You fucker,” she mutters. She goes on her tiptoes. “You absolute piece of--”

Bellamy appears in her bedroom. “Clarke, Octavia says you’re not crazy, but she said it in a way that--”

The box tips off the shelf, sudden and in the second she’s distracted--when she looks back it’s headed for her head, and she shrieks.

Bellamy lunges across the room to save her from a concussion. He curses when the box hits his fingers at an angle. “Fuck!” The box thuds, bouncing off the wall and landing on its side, the flaps opening and odd knick knacks spilling out: christmas lights, the ugly vase Clarke’s mother gave them for Christmas four years ago as a passive-aggressive response to not being invited to the housewarming. Bellamy sighs. He hefts the box up onto the bed, still unmade. “What is this?”

Clarke flaps her hands at him until he moves away. “It’s… it was my responsibility to organize the closet last spring.”

Bellamy pulls out a handful of assorted cutlery. “I can see that.” He drops the utensils on the mattress with a clatter. “So… it’s uh. It’s good you’re home. Resting.” His voice goes up on the word, like he’s not sure.

“Lexa doesn’t know me. She asked me to leave the room.” Clarke goes elbows deep, rummaging. “And I got tired of standing in the hallway listening to her doctors tell me--” She emerges from the box, triumphant. “So I’m--I’m taking her some things. Clothes, and that lotion she likes. She doesn’t-- she’s particular, she pretends she isn’t but--the one at the hospital smells weird and she doesn’t--”

Bellamy’s hands ease the shoebox out of her trembling fingers. “Alright. Where is it?”

Clarke blinks at him. “Where’s what?”

“The bag, Clarke. With the magic lotion.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “It’s in the living room. Give me that.” She snatches the shoebox back, bumping the lid open and rifling through the stacks of photographs.

“Was it also your responsibility to make the photo albums?”

“Obviously.” Clarke sorts quickly, a growing pile on the bedspread. “I’m the arty one.” Her fingers falter. “She… she recorded six episodes of the scrapbooking show on the DIY channel and played them when I didn’t do the dishes.”

Bellamy shifts, awkward. “You always told us she had a sense of humor.”

Clarke’s fingers tremble. She fumbles through another handful of photos. “Yeah. She does.”

Bellamy’s hands settle over hers, stilling them. He eases the photos out of her grip, careful to only touch the edges. “What are we looking at?”

Clarke clears her throat, dragging a hand through her hair. “The doctor said that maybe--photos could help. So I’m trying to find--” she takes a shuddery breath.

“I like this one.”

Clarke takes the single photograph from him. It’s from graduation, a selfie of the two of them in cap and gown and cords of honours. “It’s a good one,” she agrees.

“And this one?”

They go through them, Clarke and Lexa together and on their own, in dorm rooms and cars and on beaches. One with Anya at the housewarming party, another artsy shot of Lexa in bed sipping a coffee with messy hair. Christmas and Thanksgiving and looking sweaty with alcohol-loose smiles after dancing on New Year’s. Bellamy keeps Clarke from clutching them too tight and tucks them into an envelope while Clarke double checks the duffel bag: Lexa’s comfiest sweats, the lotion she likes, a box of the tea Lexa drinks before bed.

//

“This is us at graduation,” Clarke says. She’s careful not to touch Lexa’s fingers when she hands it over. “You, uh--I mean. Anya said that you remember most of college.”

“And some of law school.” Lexa studies the picture, eyes shadowed and her voice still raspy. “Did we live together then?”

“No.” Clarke shuffles through the pictures. “But we--we were together, a lot. You and Raven shared an apartment with Anya; you commuted.” She hands over another picture, the two of them on a couch, barefoot and sharing a glass of wine. “Octavia and I lived on campus, but she had Lincoln and you had your own room, so. We were together a lot.”

“A lot,” Lexa repeats. Her forehead is furrowed. “But I don’t--.”

“The doctor said that’s normal,” Clarke rushes to assure her. “And it’s, you know. It’s a process, and unpredictable.”

“Finals week,” Lexa says. “I remember finals week, my last year.”

Clarke’s breath catches. “You do? We studied together. I finished before you--you made these flashcards and I quizzed you. Do you remember?”

Lexa frowns. “No. I remember flashcards, but….” she trails off. Her finger taps on the bed, frustrated. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Clarke catches herself before she can sigh. “The doctor’s said--it’s alright.” She shuffles through the pictures. “Wanna do a few more?”

Lexa sips from her water cup, the straw rattling the ice chips. “Okay.”

//

Clarke frowns at Teresa behind the gift shop register. “But you always have violets.”

“We’ve got tulips, roses, carnations, orchids--”

Clarke frowns harder. “Can you check the back for me?”

Teresa pops her gum, then looks abashed about it. “I know what’s in the back, okay? How about an orchid, on the house even?”

“Are they purple?”

“Sure, if you want.”

Clarke nods, decisive. “She likes purple.”

 

Lexa is picking at her jello. “This is gross,” she tells Clarke. “I don’t like this, right?”

Clarke clears her small table of the lunch tray. “You never have. I brought you this.” Lexa touches the tip of a petal with a finger. 

“Thank you. I guess I like flowers.”

There are bouquets in the windowsill, along the back counter. From her work, Raven, Lincoln. “You do, yes.”

“Is this one my favorite?”

“Orchid,” Clarke says. “Is what they told me. Not your favorite. You like the color, though.”

“Do I?” Lexa’s face is guarded.

“Uh, yeah.” Clarke sets them down on the small nightstand next to the bed. “You always--violets are your favourite. And dahlias. The purple ones.”

“I see.” Lexa runs her fingers through her hair, grimacing at the rough patches, shaved down. 

“It’ll grow,” Clarke offers. “And--you’ve got a lot of hair, babe.” It slips out; she’s said it before, Lexa tucked into her and Clarke waking up with Lexa’s messy curls in her mouth and up her nose, the way it frizzes in the humidity and makes Lexa cranky in the peak of summer. 

Lexa blinks. “None of my exes called me babe.”

“I know.”

“Did you do it a lot?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Clarke sits in one of the chairs dragged close to Lexa’s bedside. “I never did it with any of my exes either, if it makes you feel better.”

Lexa half-smiles. “I’m special?”

Clarke returns the smile, tremulously hopeful. “Yeah. You’re special.”

Lexa’s eyes slide sideways--a tell that she’s feeling off-footed and awkward, although she doesn’t know Clarke is able to read it.

“I sent you carnations on Valentine’s Day,” Clarke volunteers. “Before we started dating. They had those flowergram things, at the student union? Pay fifteen bucks and they get anonymously sent with a chocolate and a custom message.”

Lexa blinks, slow. “I remember that,” she says, slow. “That was you?”

Clarke lights up. “Yes! I mean, yes, yeah. You remember?”

Lexa nods. “Yea. I thought--I remember texting Anya about it, about who it could be.”

“It was impulsive,” Clarke admits. “I hadn’t really thought about asking you out. Wells asked me to buy three grams, for some associated student body fundraiser. One for Octavia, one for Bellamy, and you popped into my head. I didn’t even know your last name, they had to search it up for me.”

Raven raps her knuckles on the door. “Hey, lazy. You done napping?”

Lexa smiles. Clarke feels it twist, a knife between her ribs. The recognition in Lexa’s face, the warmth. Something must show in her own expression, because Raven falters, a small vase of violets between her palms. “Hey,” Clarke says quickly, as close to an apology as she’s gonna get. “Come in. I’ll uh, I’ll grab us all some coffees, give you guys a minute.”

Raven looks like she’s going to argue, but Lexa speaks first. “Thank you, that sounds good.”

Raven touches Clarke’s arm lightly when they pass, a split second of comfort. Clarke lingers just outside the door, listening. “Anya’s parking,” Raven is teling Lexa. “Is it weird, me and her?”

“Anya is always weird,” Lexa says. Clarke imagines her smile, the wryness of her sly teasing. “Was it odd?” she hears Lexa ask. “When you two moved in together, with me there still?”

Raven stutters her answer, clearly off-footed. “No--you, uh--you. You moved in with Clarke.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Clarke hears shifting, the whirr of the hospital bed adjusting. “Are those for me?”

“Yes,” Raven responds, determinedly cheerful. “Your favorite. I can put them by the balloons? Who the fuck sent you balloons?”

“My employers. I have no idea if that’s in character or not. But--can you put them over here? You can move the orchid.”

“Clarke,” a new voice says, quiet. Anya is standing just there, eyebrow slightly raised.

Clarke tries to muster the energy to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping and fails. She shrugs instead. “I’m coffee-bound,” she says, and all the way to the elevator, through holding it open for a man with a quiet smile and a cane, reading the directory posted on the sliding doors, pressing the plastic button with the tip of her finger until it lights up--all she thinks about is her orchid, tucked behind balloons and moved out of Lexa’s view, cast aside and forgotten.

//

Clarke has been standing in the cafeteria staring up at the menu for twenty minutes when Anya steps up to the counter next to her. “I got it,” she says, and hands over enough money for two coffees. “You up to eating?”

Clarke takes the coffee. “Thanks. Did she ask for me?” She can’t help the hopeful pleading cant of her voice, desperate and pathetic, and it makes her wince. Anya actually looks sorry for her.

“She asked when she can go home.”

“I don’t want to rush things.” Clarke frowns. “Not until all her doctors agree. And she’ll need to be back here for follow ups, more tests.” She tosses her coffee, untouched, into a trashcan and starts rummaging through her purse for her phone. “I gotta get the house ready--fuck, laundry and food and she hates dust, it makes her sneeze--”

Anya’s hand closes, gently, around Clarke’s wrist, and Clarke goes quiet. Anya shook her hand when they met. They got roaring drunk on Lexa’s orders after a year of dating and may have high-fived, Anya’s fingers brushed hers when she wished Clarke good luck and handed her a drink at their housewarming, their shoulders bumped at Lexa’s graduation when they stood and cheered. Three times, maybe four. And now maybe five times, Anya has touched her. 

“She doesn’t want to go to the apartment,” Anya says, quiet and soft. “I’m taking her home with me.”

//

Clarke shows up with the blanket she gave Lexa for Christmas two years ago and two bags of pad thai. Anya doesn’t look surprised to see her. “Raven wanted to order Chinese. She owes me five bucks and an orgasm.”

“Gross,” Clarke says, and hands Anya a bottle of red wine. 

Lexa is settled onto the couch in a pile of pillows, the television remote, a comically large mug of tea, and a vaguely irritated expression. “They won’t let me get up,” she says. “My _legs_ are fine.”

Raven’s voice floats back from the bedroom. “The doctors said rest, bitch! Don’t make me come out there with my cane again!”

Lexa sighs. 

“I brought you some things,” Clarke says, hefting up the blanket. “There’s shirts inside, those socks you like.”

Lexa smiles, distant and polite. “Thank you, Clarke.”

“And uh, food.” Anya appears, holding paper plates and utensils. 

Lexa sighs. “I can make my own plate. I’ve been feeding myself since I was five.”

“Shut up,” Anya suggests. She piles noodles onto a plate, sticks a fork into it, and passes it along. “Think of it as a regression, except I don’t care anymore if you drink milk every morning.”

There’s a spot on the couch, just next to Lexa. Clarke hesitates. She sits on the floor with her back against the reclining chair. Raven comes out of the hallway and flops into it, her foot poking the small of Clarke’s back. “Feed me,” she demands.

“Yes dear.” Anya hands over another plate.

Raven shovels a forkful of noodles into her mouth. “Feed Clarke,” she says, muffled through the bite.

“No.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I can feed myself.”

They settle into their spots, Anya flicking through the channels to find something they can all focus on instead of talking to each other. Clarke watches Lexa out of the corner of her eye: the way she’s picking at her food, how sometimes she’s watching Clarke back.

Raven shifts in her chair. “You had a big lunch,” she offers.

“Yes,” Lexa agrees, too quickly.

Clarke stands. “You don’t like it,” she says, more harshly than she intended. She softens it with a brittle smile. “Let me get you something else.”

She goes into the kitchen and braces her hands on the sink, her plate tossed roughly into the trash. Lets her head dip between the bow of her shoulders and takes deep even breaths.

“I don’t remember liking this,” Lexa says, from behind her. Clarke can see her bare feet on the tile, the delicate bones and her skin a shade paler from socks and shoes. The flex of her toes as she shifts her weight. “I must have had Thai food before, but I don’t--I just don’t remember it.”

Clarke stands up and busies herself with washing the few mugs left in the sink. “That’s normal. Brain stuff, it’s tricky.” She takes a long time arranging the mugs in the drying rack. “You shouldn’t eat it if you don’t like it.”

“It’s not that you’re not attractive,” Lexa says, at the same time. She pauses. “It’s not that you’re not attractive,” she repeats, while the awkwardness and unfamiliarity eats Clarke alive. “I mean, it’s not…”

“It’s not me it’s you?”

Lexa ducks her head. “I know it sounds trite. But it’s--” she steps closer, dropping her voice lower. “Do you know why I didn’t join the army?”

Clarke blinks. “I didn’t know you were considering the army.”

 

Later, Clarke will think about this moment, on repeat, for four hours while she lays in bed. She’ll think about how Lexa’s face shuttered and how her eyes went blank, her smile distant and empty. She’ll run scenarios on what she could have said instead, she’ll strain to remember every second of the early days of their dating. 

She’ll dream about a lazy Sunday, sleeping in and sour kisses before they brush their teeth and coffee in their pajamas; dozing on the couch and bitching lazily about which television show to not watch while they fuck slow and lazy on the rug in the living room.

And she’ll wake up and think the admission of one slice of something she never knew, that Lexa had ever wanted to join the army; that’s when Clarke lost her.

//

Clarke opens the door. “Why are you here,” she snaps.

Anya glares back. “Yeah, you’re welcome. Glad to help.” She shoves into the apartment, headed to the back bedroom.

“You know what I mean,” Clarke mutters, trailing her. “Who’s with Lexa?”

“Raven. She’s trying to convince Lexa she loves Law and Order and kettle corn.” Anya surveys the two duffel bags against the wall. “This everything?”

“It’s temporary,” Clarke says, a sharp edge working its way into her tone. “She won’t need much.”

Anya just looks at her. “Is it everything?”

Clarke deflates. “No, there’s a toiletry bag. I’ll get it.”

Anya waits just outside the bathroom door. “I’m not jumping for joy about this. You might think I am.” She shrugs. “I’d think it of me, too.”

Clarke shifts on her feet. “We’ve never gotten along like--I mean, I don’t have any siblings. So I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“Lexa isn’t married,” Anya notes. “So I don’t have any sisters-in-law.”

Clarke shoves the toiletry bag at her. “Great. Great fucking talk. Thanks a bunch.”

Anya takes the bag. “I was getting used to the idea, though. And it’s not--you guys have something. You did when you met and you did when you were together and I can’t imagine it’s gone just because a driver on a cellphone blew a red light.”

Clarke holds the bag for an extra second before releasing. _She’s mine_ , she wants to say, jealous and possessive, her lizard brain. _Lexa is mine_. “We have a date tomorrow.”

Anya shrugs. “If you say so.”

//

Clarke picks Lexa up from Anya’s like a teenager on a date. She smoothes her sundress on the front step. Anya opens the door and looks her up and down. “You pick that for her?”

“Obviously.” It’s a pretty blue that Clarke likes to think brings out her eyes. The first time she wore it for Lexa, it hit the floor in less than a minute of her exiting the bedroom and twirling; they missed their brunch reservations.

Anya never really looks soft, but she looks a little less like she hates Clarke than she normally does. “She’s just getting dressed.” She looks awkward. “She changed five times,” she offers. “So that’s good, right?”

Clarke fidgets in the entryway. “And she’s--I mean, how is--”

“The headaches are getting better.” Anya flickers her eyes back towards the bedroom, then leans in to drop her voice to a murmur. “Her firm made some noise about the leave, but I shut it down.”

“She’s not remembering any of the law stuff either?”

Anya actually looks sorry for her. “It’s coming back, quick even.” She winces. “Not that quick. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Clarke coughs slightly. “No, that’s good, that’s really good.” 

“She used to read case studies in high school,” Anya offers. “And law school texts in undergrad. I’m sure it’s just a process.”

“Right,” Clarke agrees. “No, I know. Maybe after.” Maybe after her job, then Lexa will remember that she sleeps on the right side of their bed and Clarke takes the left. And that she gets prissy when Clarke doesn’t wake her up to kiss her hello, no matter how late Clarke gets back from the hospital even though she pretends she doesn’t care. 

“Hi.” Lexa is dressed sharply casual, iron crisp pleats in her button shirt and slacks. A plain clip holds her hair out of her face.

Clarke can feel her face go soft. “Hey.” They both grope for something else to say.

“Hello,” Anya adds. Lexa elbows her.

//

It’s a pleasant day, the sun high overhead but a rifling cooling breeze keeping it from being unbearably warm. The path up to the botanical gardens ticket booth is lined with big leafy trees, casting dapple shadows. They’d exchanged chitchat in the car on the way over: Lexa is hoping to return to work in two weeks, Clarke is scheduled for her first shift back the day after next. Anya’s couch is uncomfortable and Clarke needs to buy new sneakers. 

“I can buy my own ticket,” Lexa says, breaking the odd silence. She starts to reach into her pocket.

Clarke rummages in her purse. “You’re a member.” She hands Lexa her membership card. There’s a red ribbon tied around it. “It’s not really a gift--I mean. I gave it to you last year.”

Lexa takes it, looking at her picture and her name printed underneath. “For my birthday?”

Clarke adjusts her purse back onto her shoulder. “Our anniversary.”

“Oh.” Lexa clears her throat, quiet. “I’ll wait with you in line.”

 

“This way to the roses,” Clarke says, steering them along a path. 

Lexa frowns slightly. “Roses are--”

“Your least favorite. So you go there first.”

There’s a beat of silence. “If you say so.”

Clarke’s arms are tucked around her chest, keeping herself contained. They walk and look at the roses. “Where do I go next?” Lexa asks, an odd edge to her voice.

Clarke digs a folded map out of her pocket. “I think people have been telling you what you do since you woke up. Me included. So--” she offers the map. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Lexa takes the map. She studies it for a moment and then smiles at Clarke just like she did on their first date, barely there and quietly steady and making Clarke’s heart flip in her chest. “Tulips.”

Clarke’s arms relax, resting by her sides. “Tulips,” she agrees.

//

Clarke starts sneezing in the bluebell patch. “It’s fine,” she says, waving away Lexa’s semi-concerned look. She retrieves a travel sized pack of tissues from her purse. “I came prepared.”

By the time they’ve exhausted small talk on what movies are opening that weekend and Anya’s resistance to vegetable based meals, Clarke’s eyes are constantly tearing and her nose is bright red. The carnations are bright and lovely and the succulents are strikingly green and flowering and Clarke sneezes six times in a row into her elbow in front of the rare orchids. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says, almost smiling. “Why did you take me here.”

“I love flowers,” Clarke says, weakly and thick through her mucus. “They’re so...” she sneezes another four times. “... pollenated.”

Lexa steers them towards the exit. “Do you usually lie to me? Is it a cornerstone of our relationship?”

Clarke grins, rueful. “I--we came here, on our first date. It’s why I gave you the membership for our anniversary.”

Lexa is quiet for a beat. When she’s speaks it’s a little hesitant. “You haven’t--we haven’t talked, about how we started dating.”

Clarke hums, acknowledging. “We were friends first.”

“I remember you,” Lexa admits, making Clarke’s stomach jolt. “I mean, I remember you being in class with me.”

“Media studies,” Clarke says. “The only two seniors in a first year gen-ed.”

“Anya recommended it,” Lexa remembers. “An easy A before I went to law school.”

“To fill a hole in my schedule, before med school.” Clarke wipes her nose again. “Raven gave me the idea, after we had coffee a few times. Said you kept flowers on the windowsill in your dorm room your junior year. So I asked if you wanted to go out with me, on a real date. And I took you here.”

They slow to a stop, Lexa leaning on the fence railing in front of a field of flowers Clarke doesn’t recognize. “And you’re taking me here now.”

“This is when I knew,” Clarke admits. Lexa tilts her head, encouraging, and Clarke clears her throat. “You wore this--it was in the spring, just before summer. May, I think. Just before graduation. You wore a ribbon in your hair.”

“It’s fall now,” Lexa points out. “We’re lucky there’s any blooms at all.”

Clarke shakes her head. “It had to be here. As soon as I asked you--” on the phone alone in the apartment they used to share, Lexa crashing with Anya and Clarke falling asleep on the couch because the bed is so big and empty and lonely without Lexa and the pillow still smelled like Lexa’s shampoo. “As soon as I asked you, I knew it should be here.”

“This is when you knew?”

Clarke looks out on the field of green growing things under the bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight. “We came here--and I didn’t take any meds, so imagine the state of my nose then--and walked through every exhibit talking. And in the gift shop you touched a flower.” Clarke smiles, distant and lost in the past. “I don’t know which one, I’m terrible at knowing them. But you touched it and you closed your eyes.”

She remembers it, Lexa’s long fingers gently cradling the petal, the way her eyelashes fluttered on her cheek and the gentle rise of her chest when she inhaled. “And you looked at me, after. And you smiled. And I...”

Lexa is watching her, eyes shadowed and guarded. “And you knew?”

 _Knew I loved you_ , is what’s on the tip of Clarke’s tongue. A semester of sitting in the same room with you, a semester of Raven rolling her eyes because I was crushing on her old roommate. A month of friendship and one date, and I knew I wanted you. Knew you could be forever. “I knew.”

Lexa looks out at the gardens, the buzz of the chatter around them--families and couples and people out strolling and smiling and it’s all so mundane for the cracking Clarke feels in her heart. “I’m sorry, Clarke, but I _don’t_ know. I don’t remember... this.” She meets Clarke’s gaze, her eyes oddly opaque. Her sunglasses slide on and break the moment. “I don’t remember loving you.”

//

Clarke drives her back to Anya’s. “We could, uh. We could go back to our--to my place. I could make lunch.”

“I’m tired,” Lexa says, the first words she’s spoken since she did up her seatbelt in the parking lot of the botanical gardens and looked out the window so Clarke could fight not to cry without an audience. 

“You should rest,” Clarke agrees. “Maybe. Maybe I could take you to dinner? Not tonight, I mean. Tomorrow or… or even later this week?”

Lexa is quiet for a moment. She taps her nails on the car door’s armrest. “I think. I’d like to come get the rest of my things.”

Clarke concentrates on breathing, just the way her eighth grade therapist taught her after her first panic attack, in science class the first day back after her father’s funeral. In through her nose and out through very gently parted lips and thinking about the way she feels her chest lift and her diaphragm fill. “Alright.”

“I’ll text you?”

During their housewarming party, Clarke had thought about how her father would never meet Lexa, never make his stupid jokes or embarrass Clarke with childhood stories or share a beer with Lexa on the porch of the house they might buy. Never walk Clarke down the aisle or hold a grandchild. Lexa found her gasping in their bathroom and kissed her; her exhale slipped between Clarke’s lips and filled her gasping chest. “My phone’s always on.”

//

Raven shows up at Clarke’s door with a six pack. “We’re not in college anymore,” she says, when Clarke opens the door. “So it’s six IPAs, not twelve Natty Ices.”

Clarke lets her in. “Anya told you?”

“Mm. Octavia is working, or she’d be here, too.”

Clarke waves a hand towards the kitchen. “You know where the bottle opener is.”

Raven snorts. “Some of us are still working on post-docs. These are twist offs.” She puts the case on the table and uncaps one before passing it to Clarke. She blinks at the blank television. “You’re not watching the food network?”

“I’m not crying,” Clarke says, taking a long pull. “So I don’t need Ina.”

Raven uncaps a beer of her own and sips, frowning. “So you’re not crying, you’re not watching feel good tv…”

“I’m packing.”

Raven follows her down the hall to the bedroom. “You’re packing.”

Clarke tapes another cardboard box together. “Yes,” she says, teeth ripping the packing tape off. “I’m packing.”

Raven looks around the room. “Holy shit, you really are.” She nudges her foot against one of a long line and pile of haphazard boxes, each stuffed to the brim with no rhyme or reason or organization. “This is… all Lexa’s?”

“No.” Clarke doesn’t look up from where she’s rolling up sheets and stuffing them into a fresh box. She waves a hand towards the opposite wall, where a neater smaller stack of boxes sits. “Those are. She, uh--” Clarke drags her hair back into a messy ponytail, missing half the strands. “She’s a minimalist. I mean, that’s what I used to tease her about. I bought her that stupid book, the one about purging your belongings.”

Raven snorts. “And how did she take that?”

Clarke’s hands pause. Her smile is a little rueful, a little wan, entirely subconscious. “She lectured me on classism.”

“Okay.” Raven is next to her now; Clarke’s not sure when it happened, but her hand is warm and still on Clarke’s shoulder. “Okay, Clarke. C’mon. Let’s move her stuff into my truck. I’ll text Anya we’re headed over, you and me can do beer and bitching and Chinese some other night.”

“Yeah. Oh, hold on, one more thing.” Clarke crosses to the dresser. “I forgot, she keeps her old sweats. She pretends she’s going to throw them out, but she likes them when she feels shitty.” She kneels, tugging the drawer open. “I’ll just toss them in the cab, the boxes are already sealed.”

“I’ll take them,” Raven says, holding out her hands. “Light things are the cripple’s burden.”

Clarke goes to hand her the stack: two pairs of sweatpants and a threadbare hoodie. A pair of socks, balled up, thumps onto her foot and bounces, tumbling and rolling under the bed. “Shit. Take that out to your truck? And the first two boxes on top, by the door. Those are all clothes and toiletries, not heavy. I’ll carry the books and kitchenware.”

“Kitchenware? Clarke…”

“It’s half hers,” Clarke snaps. “We bought it together, we took turns cooking, she’s the one who knew you can’t scrape metal on the nonstick pans, okay?” She takes a deep breath. “It’s half hers.”

“Okay.” Clarke takes another few breaths, eyes closed and face tipped up. She hears Raven leave, the click of her propping the front door open. “Christ.” 

She goes to her hands and knees, and then belly, reaching under the bed and fishing out the socks. There’s an odd weight to them; they’re Lexa’s, her gym socks, and Clarke frowns while she stands. It’s not like Lexa not to have them in the regular drawer. When she unballs them and flaps them out a small black box falls from the toe, bouncing on the mattress.

Her hearing dulls into a fluctuating whine, a dull roar of pitched white noise.

“Hey,” Raven calls from the front of the apartment. “Are you going to help or what?”

Clarke looks at the ring in her hand. She can’t remember taking it out of the box, or even opening it, but she must have because it’s sitting in the center of her palm. It’s smooth and plain, grey but feels heavier and less delicate than silver. No stone but Clarke thinks Lexa knows she’d rather have something that doesn’t catch on her clothes or equipment. It’s slim too, and in the box underneath there’s a safety pin made of something sturdier than cheap thin metal and shining like it’s expensive, so Clarke can pin it to the inside of her scrub top when she’s at work.

“Clarke?” Raven appears at the doorway. “What’re are you--” She draws up short, taking in the scene. 

“There were socks,” Clarke says, hollow and flat. “Under the bed.”

Raven approaches her slow, knees slightly bent, arms outstretched. Clarke watches her, almost bemused. “I’m upset, not a wild animal.”

“Yeah well. They don’t cover this in engineering school, so forgive me being slightly awkward.” Raven straightens, sighing. “This sucks, okay? I’m sorry and I can’t fix it, but I am sorry. Is there something I can do?”

Clarke feels like she’s having an out of body experience. “There’s an inscription.” She turns it in her fingers, extending it slightly so Raven can almost see. On the inside of the band, in small plain font. The date of their anniversary. The entire ring is at once overwhelmingly romantic and undeniably plainly functional. It’s so very Lexa. It’s perfect.

Raven takes it from her, slow easy careful. “It’s…”

“She’s moving out.” For real moving out, not just crashing with Anya for a few days.

“I know.”

Clarke sits on the bed. The receipt is crumpled in her fingers. Lexa always kept all the receipts. Clarke crumples them up and tosses them in the backseat of her car, Lexa keeps them in file folders organized by date. Kept them in file folders organized by date. “--included the receipt,” she’s telling Raven. “In case I didn’t like it, wanted it altered or exchanged.” The date on the receipt is for a month before the accident, maybe a little bit more.

Raven sits next to her. “Would you have?” She turns the ring over in her fingers, drawing Clarke’s gaze to it. “Wanted it altered or exchanged?”

“No,” Clarke says quietly. “It’s perfect.” Raven puts it back in the box and Clarke shuts it with a neat dull thump. “Last month she bought me a ring. And today she’s moving out.”


	2. the rest i can do without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/2

Raven helps Clarke carry the boxes into Anya’s apartment, stacking them behind the couch. Anya noticeably and pointedly only helps Raven, leaving Clarke to pant and huff and sweat while she drags the boxes of Lexa’s books through the entryway, inch by inch. “Fuck you,” she says, without heat.

Anya tosses her an eyeroll, her hands nudging Raven into a sitting position on the couch. “You’re not supposed to be on your feet this long.”

“You know I don’t stand while I drive, right? No one stands while they drive. You know that. I can’t date someone who doesn’t know that.”

“This is the wooing period,” Anya informs her, pressing glass of water into Raven’s palm. “Enjoy the woo.”

Clarke uses her foot to kick the last box another foot along the floor. She makes pointed eyes at Raven.

“Right,” Raven says, sitting up straight. “Is Lexa still at work? I--me, personally--I would like to know how Lexa is doing.”

Anya rolls her eyes. Possibly as polite as she’s capable of being, she answers Raven’s painfully transparent questions. “Lexa is still at work. She’s easing in slow, and they’re being appropriately supportive.”

Clarke kicks Raven in the ankle. 

“And her headaches?” Raven asks, prompt.

“Gone, almost. Once a while a twinge. Down to just advil, though.”

“That’s good,” Raven agrees. She looks idly at the far wall. “Do I have any other questions?”

Clarke glares. “No.”

Anya bends to kiss Raven’s cheek, light. “You’re a good friend. Go down to the corner and grab a pizza?”

Raven flickers her eyes to Clarke. “You staying? I could get a six pack, order a movie on demand?”

“No,” Clarke says, quick. “No, I should get back. Working tomorrow, you know.”

Anya and Raven trade a complicated look. Raven rubs her fingers together and Anya rolls her eyes before tossing Raven her wallet from the counter. Raven fans herself with the billfold. “You’re so good to me.”

“Golddigger,” Anya snipes, but it’s fond and soft and she stays looking after the door closing behind Raven, a little smile playing at her the corners of her lips.

Clarke remembers that. Inside jokes and banter and the warmth of being happy healthy in love. “It’s sweet,” she offers. “You and Raven. You’re good together.”

Anya sighs. “Are we really doing this?”

Clarke picks up her phone and tucks it into her pocket. “Let’s not.”

She’s got her hand on the doorknob when Anya calls after her. “I never pegged you for a quitter.” Clarke stops, but doesn't turn. “I’ve thought a lot of unflattering things about you, but never that.”

Clarke sighs. “So we _are_ doing this. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Anya scoffs. “Don’t be an asshole. Just because I didn’t do cartwheels when Lexa brought you home doesn’t mean I wanted… this.”

Clarke turns and leans her back against the door, head tipped up. She exhales, slow. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Anya shifts on her feet, awkward and unsure.

“I thought I would,” Clarke admits. “I thought, you know. That I could figure it out. That we’d go on a couple of dates, and--. We fell in love before, right? I mean maybe I asked her out first but she kissed me first, she said we should move in, she remembered birthdays and anniversaries, she--” Clarke shakes her head. “It’s not like I was alone in it. We were in love. _We_ were in love. And now it’s just me.”

“So you blame her? For forgetting you?” Anya makes a vague gesture with both of her hands. “We’re alone, and to be frank, I’m already thinking a lot less of you.”

“She remembers law school,” Clarke blurts out. “She remembers--fuck, she remembers Raven and Octavia, and apparently at her last appointment, she talked to my mother in the elevator and remembered she’s allergic to pears, which half the time _I_ fucking forget about my own goddamn mother. She--” Clarke wipes at her eyes, rough. Her voice cracks, messy and wet. “She remembers that she fed a stray cat last year. Last year! We fed that cat _together_. And I know I can’t blame her and I know it’s not her fault, I do.”

Anya is close to her, suddenly. “It’s alright,” she gentles. “I’d be angry, too.”

“I know it’s not her fault,” Clarke repeats. “And I know about how brain injuries are, I know that. I do. But it’s like she took a scalpel to her memory and only cut the parts with me out.”

Anya touches her shoulder. “And you’re giving up.”

"Did you know about the ring?"

Anya's face freezes. "Yes," she admits. "But I didn't... I thought maybe you didn't. It seemed cruel, to tell you." Her expression flickers. "It is cruel, for you to know."

“I need to think,” Clarke admits. “I need to--to sleep, and I can’t, because the sheets are still... I just need some time.”

Anya reaches into her pocket and retrieves a pen. She flips Clarke’s arm over and writes on her forearm. “This is a hotel I used to crash at when Lexa kicked me out so you could lie to me about fucking on the sofa. Clean, quiet, not far from the hospital. Decent rate, okay room service. Delivery options.”

Clarke looks at the address in ballpoint ink, smudged faintly on her skin. “Yeah. Okay.” A couple days of sleep and food that isn’t corn chips and instant noodles. Some time to think. 

//

“Hey,” Octavia says, when Clarke answers the door. She’s holding two bottles of wine, one in each hand, and she hands Clarke the one that’s already been uncorked. “How was the vacation?”

“The hotel was nice,” Clarke says, swigging from the bottle and moving to let Octavia inside. “And I’m back full time at work, so.”

Octavia looks at the cartons of takeout, some a few days old, littering the kitchen countertops. “I can see that.”

Clarke shoves a few old styrofoam boxes and their drunken noodle remnants into a hefty bag. “Uh, I just haven’t gotten to cleaning up yet.”

Octavia dusts a few grains of fried rice off the sofa and flops into it. “Yeah, I can see that. Lincoln said I should bring a casserole.”

Clarke perks up, faintly. “Did you?”

“No. I’m not even a hundred percent sure what a casserole is. Plus… casseroles are funeral food. Lexa’s not dead.”

Clarke is quiet. She takes another long pull of wine. “Do you wanna watch the kid masterchef show with me?”

“Get drunk and shout at children? I already do that at my day job, I’ve got the eighth graders this year. How about Chopped?”

Clarke sits down on the sofa. Lets herself kind of half melt onto Octavia in an awkward semi-embrace. Octavia pats the side of her head absently and reaches for the remote with her free hand. 

//

Clarke is still on the phone with her mother when she gets home. “I haven’t given up,” she says, for the tenth time since she picked up the call in the parking lot. “I’m giving her some room--I gotta go Mom, I gotta cook dinner.” She yanks open the fridge and uses the tip of a used chopstick on the counter to poke at the takeout containers. Drops her phone on the counter and slaps at it until the call disconnects. 

She’s lying on the sofa thinking about ordering a pizza and playing candy crush on her phone when her door buzzes. She throws a shoe at it. “Not tonight, Raven!”

She watches the shadow in the hall under the door shift. The door buzzes again. She sighs. Levers herself up and hops on one foot to throw her sock in a random direction before yanking the door open. “Unless you have a meat lovers supreme, I’m--”

It’s Lexa. All of Clarke’s words dry up. She gapes, aware of the grime of the day in her hair and the smudged mascara around her eyes. Lexa looks pale, and tired. Her face is too thin and the beanie yanked over her head looks itchy and uncomfortable. “Hey.”

“H-hi,” Clarke stammers. “Is--are you okay?”

“I used my phone to get here.” Lexa holds up her phone, then tucks it in a pocket, shifting on her feet. “I don’t--I still don’t remember.”

“Okay.” Clarke opens the door a little wider. “Do you want…?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Clarke says, and lets Lexa in.

//

When they were in college they had a metal electric kettle, plugged into the powerstrip under Lexa’s desk. Clarke’s was always too messy. They made shitty instant coffee and ramen noodles and when the test was over or the paper handed in, Lexa used to go over to the campus store and pay too much for tiny marshmallows and the packets of cheap hot chocolate powder and make Clarke a warm mug to cup her hands around and sip from while Lexa hummed and braided her hair and they paid no attention to the movie playing tinny over the laptop speakers. 

Clarke keeps a box of the Swiss Mix behind the crackers in the cupboard. Half nostalgic fondness and half a little bit resistant of leaving behind being young and free of responsibility. She heats the water in mugs in the microwave because she’s never had Lexa’s patience, to stir milk on the stovetop. She watches the plate turn through the heavy tinted glass and plastic and listens to the hum, and when it beeps twice, she pulls them out and stirs the powder in.

She hears the door and the quiet sound of Lexa’s feet on the tile. It’s so achingly familiar, she half expects to feel Lexa’s arms wind around her waist and the point of Lexa’s chin in her shoulder; a memory echo of how Lexa used to like to kiss her soft and dry lipped in the hollow just behind her ear. She swallows and flicks a tiny look sideways--Lexa with her hair wet and tangled and barefoot in Clarke’s pajama pants and Clarke’s hoodie, swallowing her up. Tired eyes and the hunch in her shoulders that means her knee is acting up. 

“I made hot chocolate,” she says, to break the silence.

“I slept with someone,” Lexa replies. 

Clarke’s hand jerks on the spoon and the cup sloshes, spilling over onto the counter and her hand. She hisses, dragging her tongue up her thumb. Presses a knuckle between her eyes. Rips a paper towel off the roll to clean up her mess. “Oh,” she says, and it’s too high pitched and choked off. 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa says, quiet, and Clarke flinches, fingers tight around the mug. She slides it across the counter and Lexa touches the curve of the handle, Clarke pulling away like she’s been burned. “I don’t say it to hurt you. I’m just… trying to explain why I’m here.”

“It hurts me,” Clarke tells her, because it’s been years since she lied to Lexa and she doesn’t want to start now.

Lexa nods, acknowledging. “I was… out drinking.” Her throat works in a quiet swallow, her lips tugging downwards. Disappointed in herself. “I have been drinking a lot.” She pauses again. “Uncharacteristically, I feel.”

“How would you know?”

Lexa blinks at her. 

“I mean, you could have been a lush. Two days from checking yourself in with Dr. Drew.”

Lexa blinks some more. “Who’s Dr. Drew?”

“Could be your therapist. Could be your best friend. Who knows? Not you.”

Despite that--the raw hollow abyss of yearning in her chest and the spinning in her head (someone else’s hands on Lexa’s bare torso, her fine thin scars and her shivers, her tongue in someone else’s mouth, legs spread and their name on her lips and was it a blonde like Clarke or all curls like Costia)--despite that. It is something, to see the corner of Lexa’s mouth curl up. Familiar, her quiet appreciation for Clarke’s humor and her own wry wit. “Thank you, Clarke.”

“For what?”

Lexa puts her cup into the sink, still full. “For letting me in.” She raises a hand very slightly in farewell, awkward, and pads off. Clarke hears the couch creak. She leans against the counter and tips her head back and closes her eyes and gulps her drink down in too big swallows.

For letting her in, Lexa had said. Like Clarke did her a favor. Like this apartment isn’t a listing Lexa picked out and like the kitchen isn’t organized just so because Lexa put her hands on her hips and glared until Clarke meekly added the cutlery drawer organizer to their cart at the dollar store. Like the chip in the top left cabinet isn’t there because Lexa slammed Clarke against it with the force of her body and her joy and her love when Clarke nailed her dream job interview. 

Like Lexa doesn’t live here anymore.

//

Clarke wakes because there’s noise in the kitchen. For just--just a quarter of a second, she thinks _Lexa is gonna make me eat whole fucking wheat toast again_. Then she wakes up completely and drags her hands over her face, smudging the sleep out of her eyes. Remembers it’s been days and days and days since she’s slept with Lexa’s arm over her waist. 

She gives herself a few minutes in the bathroom first. Enough time to comb her hair and brush her teeth and scrub at her face. To hold her makeup in one hand and look at herself in the mirror and turn one way and then the other before shoving everything back into a drawer and sweeping her hair up into a messy ponytail. There’s bags under her eyes and she’s a little sleep swollen, but she’d rather be that than for Lexa to realize she’d put on concealer in the bathroom just because Lexa was in the kitchen.

Lexa is standing at the stove. “I’m making breakfast,” she says, darting a quick glance back at Clarke before returning her attention to the stove. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 _Of course not, make yourself at home_ , is what Clarke thinks she should say. “Who did you fuck?” is what she ends up asking.

Lexa’s back goes stiff. She doesn’t say anything. Whatever’s in the pan sizzles; the stove fan blares dully in the background as white noise.

“I’m going to shower,” Clarke says. “I’m not hungry.”

 

She half expects Lexa to be gone when she gets out of the shower. She dresses for comfort and confidence and changes three times before straightening her shoulders and leaving the safety of the bedroom. Lexa is sitting on the couch reading the newspaper--it’s such a familiar sight it punches the breath from Clarke’s lungs. 

“There’s a plate for you in the--”

“Oven,” Clarke finishes.

Lexa looks up from the paper. “Yes.” She tries for a weak smile. “A common occurrence?”

“Not uncommon.” Clarke retrieves the plate from the oven, still warm. Homefries and eggs and mushrooms, bacon mixed in and everything scrambled up into a heap of comfort food. Clarke stares at the plate for so long her eyes start to water. “You made this?” she calls back. 

“I knew how to cook before I met you,” Lexa informs her, waspish the way she is when Clarke interrupts her reading and her coffee.

Clarke sits at the table and eats, listening to the ruffle of Lexa’s newspaper and the clink of her coffee mug, the rustle of her clothing when she uncrosses and recrosses her legs. Clarke sets her fork down. “I think you should stay.”

Lexa keeps the paper up, hiding her face. “I don’t have any clothes here. And I work tomorrow.”

“I think you should stay here.”

The paper snaps folded, neatly in Lexa’s lap. She meets Clarke’s eyes. “And why is that?”

Clarke grins. “Because I know something you don’t know.”

“Oh?”

Clarke drags a finger around the rim of her plate, licks it clean. “This is the Griffin one-pan slam. I taught you how to make it. You don’t eat this. You eat yogurt and granola and fresh cut fruit and leftover cold Chinese when you think I’m not looking. You only make _this_ for _me_.”

Lexa holds her gaze for another three beats of Clarke’s heart. “Alright,” she says, and starts on the crossword.

//

They spend the day in halting, awkward cohabitation. Clarke pretends to be incredibly invested in an all day marathon of sports documentaries so Lexa can snoop about the apartment unwatched.

Raven appears at lunchtime with Chinese and a handful of DVDs. “Do you know how many places I had to go to find a still-existing Redbox?”

Lexa frowns at the selection. “Which of these do I like?” she asks.

Clarke elbows Raven, hard. “Read the synopsis,” she suggests. “And pick. We won’t say anything one way or the other.”

Lexa retreats to the couch with her phone, seriously engaged in comparing reviews and blurbs.

“Going okay?” Raven whispers, while she and Clarke watch the popcorn go around in circles through the cloudy microwave door.

“She agreed to stay,” Clarke whispers back, and accepts Raven’s supportive fistbump. “Do you think you could--? Or is that weird and manipulative?”

“You’re weird and manipulative,” Raven says, fishing her phone of her pocket and texting rapidly. “Anya will call with a fake emergency in fifteen minutes.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I’m a good everything,” Raven informs her. 

 

Lexa only rolls her eyes a little when Raven suddenly and effusively apologetically has to leave right now, immediately. “Maybe sell it a little less,” Clarke mutters, when they hug goodbye.

“Good luck with the you know what,” Raven whispers, far far too loudly. Lexa rolls her eyes again.

 

Clarke vaguely remembers the movie Lexa picked. It’s sad and it’s half in subtitles and Lexa tricked her into going to see it in theaters by suggesting the crowd would be very sparse and therefore provide a greater opportunity for hanky panky; she followed this up by being so raptly engrossed in the film that Clarke took a nap until the credits rolled and Lexa woke her up with an elbow and a disapproving sigh.

It’s not any more engaging the second time, but Clarke does manage to stay awake. The credits roll and Lexa smiles. “I like it,” she declares. 

“The more things change,” Clarke says. They stay where they’ve settled into opposite sides of the couch, snuggled into the cushions, the empty popcorn bowl set aside. The credits finish and the splash screen loops on mute. Clarke’s head is on the arm of the sofa, her body slumped. “I’ll get up,” she mumbles, remembering she’s occupying half of what’s serving as Lexa’s bed. “We should… eat dinner or something.”

“It’s okay,” Lexa says, quiet and sleepy. Clarke sees her yawn out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Clarke sighs. She falls asleep listening to Lexa’s measured even breathing.

 

Clarke wakes with a start. It’s dark out and the television has gone blue with inactivity. She’d stretched out at some point, her feet nudging Lexa’s thighs; Lexa has slumped sideways, her head on Clarke’s hip, her hair tickling the back of Clarke’s hand. Her chest rises and falls, her eyes flutter gently under their closed lids. “Lex,” Clarke rasps, stirring and trying to reach the coffee table where her phone is resting screen down. “Lexa.”

“Mm,” Lexa mumbles. She smashes her face into the back of Clarke’s thigh. “Sshh.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, without any real heat. “Gonna fuck up the sleeping schedule.”

“Shut up,” Lexa suggests. The fingers of one of her hands curls around Clarke’s socked ankle, tickling the stubby hairs at just the start of her calf. It’s softly intimate and her breath seeps warmth into the denim of Clarke’s jeans and she lets herself be drawn slowly gently back into sleep.

//

“We shouldn’t have slept so long,” Lexa informs Clarke, while she’s still trying to get her eyes to focus and the drool out of the corners of her mouth. Her arms are crossed, her tone accusing.

Clarke points at her. “I tried! You threatened my life!”

Lexa scoffs.

Clarke rubs at her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Three-thirty,” Lexa mutters. “I’d let you sleep, but I can’t remember if you can sleep through that long or if you should wake up for an hour or two before napping.”

Clarke has, on occasion, thought that if she didn’t have to pee, she could easily sleep for forty-eight hours at a time, perhaps even consecutively. On occasion she’s suspected the same of Lexa. “Stay up for a bit,” she chooses, and swallows down a yawn. “Cocoa?”

“Please.”

Lexa follows her into the kitchen, leaning a hip on the counter and looking heavy eyed and sleep soft while Clarke pours milk into a saucepan. She hands Clarke the cocoa powder when it’s time and fishes the same two mugs out of the drying rack. The kitchen table is just there, but when Lexa goes back to the couch Clarke follows. 

Clarke sips her drink and… and maybe it’s the way everything is dark-dim and whisper-quiet. How the outside sounds are muted and far away and they’ve slipped into the sideways place of very late at night and very early in the morning. But she wets her tongue with cocoa the way Lexa likes it, hot and almost bitter, and she asks again, quiet and almost pleading, “Tell me about her?”

Lexa is quiet for so long Clarke thinks they’re carrying on like she never asked, but then Lexa sets her mug aside. “Do you really want to know?”

No, Clarke thinks, her stomach rolling, God no, never. “Yes,” her mouth says. “Please.”

//

Lexa says she goes walking at night now. Nothing dangerous or illicit, just the crispness of the air when the sun goes down and the roving glow of the streetlamps. The downtown area has lights strung among the trees and the rumble of young people leading young lives; the bursts of raucous joy when the bar doors open and they spill out onto the street to stagger home. 

Lexa says that she went into one bar, looking for that spark in her chest. She says that the last clear memory she has before the holes start is being one of those students, stories that start with ‘one time at a party’ and drinking vodka straight from the plastic bottle, cheap pisswater beer and the clatter of empties off balconies when you see the coplights coming. 

Lexa says she was drinking--Lexa corrects herself and says she was drunk. A shot of tequila and two cocktails and then another hit of tequila when a girl went bellyup to the bar right next to her, said her name was Jamie, and offered a wrist of salt and a lime wedge in the crook of her thumb. 

Lexa says Jamie had brown hair and brown eyes and an easy smile. She says Jamie is a schoolteacher in town for her college roommate’s wedding. That she flipped her hotel keycard in her fingers nervously until Lexa traded it for a jello shot and ordered an uber ride for two. They stood awkwardly in the elevator and Jamie turned down the bedsheets while Lexa took off her shoes and her jacket and laid them on the desk chair. They kissed three times: once before, Lexa’s hands easing Jamie’s jacket to let drop to the floor, once during, Lexa on top with her bra still on, once after, a light easy peck with Jamie still naked on the sheets, Lexa’s boots untied and her hair mussed, checking her pockets for her keys and her phone before she makes her way back to the street.

Lexa says _Clarke_ , very gently and softly, her hand hovering over Clarke’s shoulder. _Clarke, I--_. She’s sorry, maybe, or confused. Maybe she didn’t expect to see Clarke crumble in on herself, her face in her hands and shaking, helpless, wracked with the force of her sobs; pain so acute it’s unfathomable there’s no physical root to it. 

//

Clarke feels wrung out, slumped into the couch in a position that makes her neck crack when she shifts. She sleeps for another hour, stirring when she hears Lexa quietly getting showered and dressed and out the door to work. She stares at the ceiling for an undetermined amount of time and sleeps again. 

She wakes up again and thinks about going for the bottle of wine in the back of the fridge--she plays candy crush on her phone for twenty minutes and goes back to sleep instead.

 

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, a dark blur in Clarke’s fuzzy vision. 

“You’re here,” she says, her voice rasping. She blinks until Lexa comes into focus. “Sorry for… me. Everything.”

“It’s alright. I didn’t know if I should bring dinner? I mean, I didn’t know if you’d want to eat.”

“I want,” Clarke murmurs. She sits up. “I want to get high.”

Lexa blinks. “Okay. I didn’t bring any of that either.”

 

It takes Clarke half an hour to find her old stash and her old pipe. Lexa wrinkles her nose at the old weed smell and scours the bathroom cabinets, emerging triumphant with rubbing alcohol and going at the pipe until it gleams again. They dust off the old futon they’d hand carried two blocks from the place they bought it to the apartment and up the four flights of stairs and through the broken sliding door onto their tiny balcony and Clarke packs a bowl. “You like to pretend it’s not so,” she tells Lexa, “but you were always more into it than I was.”

“Objection,” Lexa says, taking a long draw from her third generous glass of wine. “Slander all over the place.”

Clarke flicks the lighter and takes a drag and feels it hit the back of her throat, thick and hot and acrid; she exhales in a coned plume, wisping up heavy and fading into the sky, just barely starting to brighten at the horizon. “Fuck,” she mutters, swallowing a cough and sneaking Lexa’s wine away to chase the taste off her tongue. 

Lexa takes a bigger hit than Clarke, and with an ease that has Clarke rolling her eyes. Her exhale is lighter, her mouth slipping open lax and easy and letting the smoke tip out. “Do you feel better?” she asks. She holds the pipe steady for Clarke’s lips to slip around the mouthpiece, just over where her own where. 

Clarke exhales again. Her blood sings, the world goes soft and quiet. Ash flutters, dusting white and grey on the cushion between them. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I feel better than I did when you were telling me about it. But I don’t feel better than I did two months ago, when I’d wake up in bed with you.”

Lexa settles back onto the couch, her legs tucking up under her. Her toe brushes against Clarke’s hip. They pass the pipe back and forth, watch the sun start to rise. “I don’t work today,” Lexa says, eventually. 

“I do. Just paperwork today, though.”

There’s a long long pause. Clarke blows the last of the ashes out of the bowl, leaving it empty. 

“I’m hungry,” Lexa says, eyes thoughtful and distant. “I want… pizza.”

Clarke digs her phone out of her pocket. “What kind?”

Lexa’s brow furrows. “Which do I like?”

“Do you not know because you’re high, or because you’re brain-damaged?”

Lexa considers the question deeply. “Both,” she decides.

An idea niggles in the back of Clarke’s mind. “How about,” she says, slowly. “I call in, and we figure it out.”

Lexa’s eyes flicker at her. “They won’t deliver until at least eleven.”

“Grocery store,” Clarke says. “A toppings run. I know how to make dough and we’ve got the stuff here.”

Lexa considers the idea deeply. “I’m very high,” she decides. “You will be in charge of navigation and finances.”

“Acceptable,” Clarke says, and stands with minimal swaying. “We’ll walk down to the store on the corner; it’s twenty four hours.”

//

Lexa considers each item very seriously. She explains, twice, how Clarke can check the unit price on the shelf stickers. Then she eats an entire packet of licorice in the sauce aisle and panics because she didn’t pay for it yet. Clarke stuffs the wrapper into her pocket and grabs Lexa by the hand. “C’mon, Louise,” she says, and drags Lexa over to bicker about shredded cheese mixes.

They emerge triumphant, with two paper bags of vegetables, varied meats, cheese, tomato sauce, and yeast packets. Clarke scrolls her phone with one free finger while they climb the stairs. “It says to just mix the shit and add warmish water.”

“Haven’t you done this before?”

Clarke digs in her pocket for her keys. “No. I mean, Raven used to do it in college, but I always just reaped the benefits.”

Lexa goes oddly quiet, her forehead furrowed. “Something new,” she says, when they’re unpacking the bags onto the kitchen counter. She looks slantwise at Clarke, then smiles. “Something new.”

 

“Pepperoni,” Clarke says, poking at the pizza in the saucepan. “Onions, mushrooms.”

“I’m hungry,” Lexa says, not for the first time. She reaches for a chunk of vegetable on the chopping board and Clarke slaps at her hand with the spatula. Lexa glares. “I’m hungry.”

“Go roll a joint.”

Lexa leans her hip against the counter. She uses the hem of her t-shirt to mop up a few drops of spilled water, and Clarke watches from the corner of her eye: Lexa’s hipbones, the flashes of her belly and the jut of her ribs, still thin from the weight she dropped just after the accident. Clarke pokes at the melted cheese and pretends to be paying attention to the crust cooking through while she watches: Lexa’s fingers and the dull glint of the kitchen light off her nails, the flex of her wrists and the roll of her knuckles and how her eyes narrow in that specific way that means she’s concentrating her hardest.

The lighter flickers with flame and Lexa takes the first drag, tipping her head back to blow a cone of smoke at the ceiling. “This won’t make me less hungry.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Get a plate, then.”

Lexa takes the first bite and wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think I like onions.”

Once, on a dare, Lexa had bitten into a raw onion like an apple and then kissed Clarke just to make her giggle through her furious glower.

“No onions,” Clarke agrees. She pokes a the pile of vegetables. “How do you feel about bell peppers?”

Lexa considers the question carefully, her pupils dilated and her blinks slow. “Positively.”

Clarke dumps yeast into the bowl of flour. “Bell peppers it is.”

 

“I can’t eat anymore,” Lexa groans. She reaches for another slice and takes a bite. “I like bacon,” she decides, muffled through the mouthful. “I like bacon a lot.”

Clarke watches her with genuine admiration. “The crust isn’t even cooked all way through on that one.”

Lexa swallows. “Yeah, it’s not good. Hand me the pineapple and ham?”

“Gross,” Clarke comments, but complies.

Lexa takes a single bite. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Too much, or too high?”

Lexa lists over on the couch. “Both. Fuck.”

Clarke runs for the garbage can in the kitchen. She makes it back just in time, wisps of Lexa’s hair escaping her hasty grab and falling around her face as Lexa retches. “Gross,” Clarke murmurs, and then, “okay?”

“Fuck,” Lexa slurs. She wipes at her mouth. “I’m okay.”

Clarke grabs the glass of water from the table. “Here.” She waits until Lexa’s drained it, then sets it aside. “Bed time?”

“Yeah.” Lexa flops over onto her back, yawning so wide her jaw cracks. “Thanks for doing this.”

Clarke’s hand is still on Lexa’s hip, Lexa’s elbow is nudged against her ribs. She sits there until Lexa’s breathing has evened out, and then a long while longer. She watches, quietly and ardently: the rise and fall of Lexa’s chest, the soft draw of breath through her lips and the flutter of her exhale, the way her hair moves slightly when the breeze ruffles through the cracked open window. She falls asleep sitting up on the floor with her back against the sofa, her head near Lexa’s knee.

//

Clarke gets home and the blanket is folded neatly at the end of the couch instead of rumpled from the warm weight of Lexa’s body. Lexa’s shoes and bag are gone and there’s a bowl soaking in the sink, faint oatmeal residue around the rim.

Clarke sits on the sofa. She checks her phone and thinks about reaching for the remote, her head tipped back and staring blankly at the ceiling. The silence is loud and grating and she thinks there’s no more vodka in the freezer. “Fuck,” she mutters.

She’s halfway to her feet, thinking she’ll just go to bed and try again at functioning normally tomorrow, when the lock turns. Lexa peeks her head through. “Hey.”

Clarke boggles. “H-hey! You’re back.”

Lexa shuffles in sideways, her arms full. “I brought food.”

Clarke clears her throat and adds some cheer to her voice to cover it’s emotional wobble. “Great!”

Clarke helps her unload the takeout onto the counter, take down a few plates and forks. Lexa doles out spoons of curry and white rice. “You didn’t think I was coming back.”

Clarke looks down at her plate. “I woke up and--no. I didn't think you were coming back.”

Lexa takes a bite, chews slowly, swallows. Considers her fork for a moment before she finally speaks, quiet and whispered: “I didn’t either.”

//

On the seventh day, Lexa comes home late. Clarke is watching television with her phone in a death grip, clicking the screen back alive everytime it goes to sleep, thinking about Lexa in a gutter, in a totaled car, in a hospital flatlining alone. She hears the key in the lock and the relief hits her like a freight train, leaving her dizzy and breathless. She makes herself tuck her phone under her thigh and return her gaze to the television. “Hey,” she manages, carefully nonchalant.

“Hello,” Lexa says, very seriously. Then she wobbles and trips into the apartment, steadying herself on the doorknob and swaying with the motion of the door. “Shit.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes.” Lexa stumbles in, evening out her steps and using the wall to stabilize herself. “I went to _many_ bars. At least two.”

“Party girl Woods,” Clarke teases, crossing the room to take her by the arm and guide her over to the couch. She reevaluates Lexa’s list and goes for the bedroom instead, the bed higher up and the bathroom closer. “What are you drinking, these days?”

“Beer.” Lexa leans back, flopping back onto the bed and sighing. “Clarke.”

Clarke is easing Lexa’s bag off her shoulder, setting it aside and smoothing Lexa’s messy hair. “Yes, Lexa.”

“Beer is so disgusting, Clarke. Why does anyone drink it. Why, Clarke?”

“You still did,” Clarke points out, kneeling and starting to work on the laces of Lexa’s boots. “Why did you drink it?”

Lexa exhales. “It’s rude to refuse gifts.” Her voice is vague and almost smiling, but it makes Clarke’s back go stiff and her heart pound in the roof of her mouth.

“Someone bought you drinks.”

“Mm.”

Clarke frees one foot and drops the boot to the side. She starts working on the second. “So you’re making friends.” It comes out hard and flat, and she coughs, trying to soften it. “Did you have fun?”

“No.” Lexa sighs, tipsy and bluntly honest. “I don’t know, Clarke.”

Clarke’s hand is on her knee, steadying. Lexa’s laces flap when Clarke undoes them. “You don’t know?”

Lexa’s fingers land on her cheek, clumsy, startling Clarke into stillness. When she looks up Lexa has curled her back, propped up on her elbows and leaning in close, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Clarke,” she says, careful and gentle on her tongue, just the way she used to when they lay together in bed and the whole world was just each other. 

Clarke’s breath catches, her eyes flutter. “What don’t you know?” 

Lexa’s hand falls away. Her eyes go distant. Clarke stays there until her knees are screaming and her calves are cramping, until Lexa’s breathing has evened out and her face has gone soft and lax with sleep, on her side with her hand tucked under her cheek and her ankle still in the loose circle of Clarke’s fingers.

//

Lexa opens her eyes, muzzy from sleep, and blinks at Clarke. “That’s creepy,” she rasps. 

“Yeah, I wasn’t planning on being caught.” Clarke straightens from where she was leaning against the wall watching Lexa sleep. “I spent the night on the couch.”

Lexa stands, stretching until her shoulder cracks with a sigh of relief. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s your bed, too. I just didn’t want you to think I-- Anyway. I spent the night on the couch.”

“You’re off today?”

“Night shift.” Clarke tilts her head towards the bathroom. “You should get ready.”

Lexa checks the clock on the bedside table. She groans and rubs at her temple. “Fuck. Yeah.”

“There’s advil on the counter and a bagel in the toaster. Throw another one in there before you go?”

Lexa nods, headed for the shower. “See you at dinner, before you go?”

Clarke hums, acknowledging, and sits on the edge of the mattress, looking around. Lexa’s bag against the wall, her shoes kicked off and lying sideways on the floor. Her toothbrush is in the cup on the bathroom counter, her keys on the hook by the front door. When Clarke lies down her head fits into the indent Lexa left in the pillow, the lingering scent of her bodywash on the sheets.

She’s dozing when she hears the hairdryer, and drifting into a deep sleep when Lexa emerges. She feels, distantly, the bed dip when Lexa sits to put her shoes on, the light touch of Lexa’s fingers on her elbow, her murmured goodbye. 

She drags herself out of bed after only a few hours for water and a mid morning breakfast before she goes to sleep for a long stretch, and there’s a bagel on a plate on the counter waiting for her. It’s toasted, sliced in half, and spread with strawberry jam. Clarke snags it, sinking her teeth into the faint crunch as she heads for the fridge, and the taste makes her pause, the door open in her hand. She takes the bagel out of her mouth and looks at it in the dim fridge light. The layer of jam, and then, underneath: margarine. 

Just the way Clarke likes it and just the way Lexa shouldn’t remember how to fix it.

//

Lexa brings home pizza, faintly smug at her sly joke, and Clarke rolls her eyes as she gets plates down from the cabinet. Lexa is quiet while she eats, thoughtful and withdrawn, barely engaging when Clarke ribs her for eating pizza with a knife and fork. 

Clarke does dishes while Lexa taps away at her laptop, wraps the extra slices in aluminum foil for them to take with them to work. She cracks a bottle of wine and pours them both a glass and browses a journal with the television on low and Lexa next to her on the couch. It’s domestic, perfectly so, and when Clarke flicks the television off and says she’s going to bed she kisses Lexa’s cheek before she realizes what she’s doing. She freezes, but Lexa just smiles at her, distracted by the case she’s prepping for, and Clarke retreats to the back bathroom to run the water and splash it over her face, her heart racing.

She makes herself change, and wash her face with a cloth, scrubbing until her skin feels red and sensitive to the cold tap water. She drops into bed and takes a long time to fall asleep, tossing and turning.

She’s woken just a few minutes later, a hand on her shoulder. “Clarke,” Lexa whispers.

Clarke goes up on her elbows, muzzy. “Yeah? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I--” Lexa is in her pajamas, fleece bottoms and a ribbed tank top, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. “I,” she says again, and almost looks lost. 

Clarke scoots back. She raises the edge of the sheet, the blanket tossed down to the foot of the bed, and waits. Lexa slides beneath it, turning so her back fits against Clarke’s front, her toes cold when they brush Clarke’s ankle. Clarke hesitates, and then, inch by inch as Lexa settles into stillness, moves closer and closer.

And then it’s almost like it was. Lexa spooned against Clarke’s front, her hair tickling Clarke’s noise. Except instead of a grope or a kiss to the back of Lexa’s neck Clarke is holding her breath and laying her arm across Lexa’s waist like she’s disarming a bomb. Lexa sighs, making Clarke freeze, but then she noses into the pillow and--infinitesimally, but--relaxes back into Clarke’s embrace. It makes Clarke brave.

“Lexa,” she whispers.

“Mm?”

It’s quiet, in their room. The streetlight leaking through the blinds in the window, the muted sounds of lonely cars on the road. “Let me take you out,” Clarke asks, and she wonders if Lexa can feel her heartbeat, rabbit quick against her back. “Let me try again.”

Lexa pulls away and it almost rips a sob from Clarke’s chest, the loss of her. But Lexa isn’t leaving the bed; she’s turning over. Clarke can feel Lexa’s breath on her face, spearmint and the last vestiges of the wine. Their legs are tangled, their hips touching, just enough light to make out that Lexa’s eyes are open. “Why?”

“I’ve tried,” Clarke says. “I have. You could have-- You’re alive, and you’re okay, and maybe you could find happiness with someone else and maybe I could, too, but that’s all maybes, Lexa. I want you to be happy and I know, I _know_ you’re happy with me.”

 _Mine_ , Clarke wants to tell her. _You’re mine, and no one is going to take you away from me, not even you_. She pushes that thought down with a grimace. “If I was a better person I’d do the let you go thing. But you’re still you, and you’re still here. I want you to be happy, and I want you to be with me.”

Lexa kisses her. She misses the first time, landing on Clarke’s chin, but then her lips are on Clarke’s and it’s just how Clarke remembers it. She spent a long time, those days at the motel, trying to remember the last time they’d kissed before the accident. She thought maybe it was just before Clarke left for work, an absent-minded kiss pressed to Lexa’s hair while she leveled herself out of bed for a shower. But maybe it had been the night before, Lexa kissing her when Clarke sidled up to the stove to try and steal a bite of stirfry. 

Clarke’s teary by the time the kiss breaks, and glad of the darkness that hides it. They’re breathing quicker, the both of them, for all it was a short, slow kiss, softer than it was deeper. “I don’t like Thai,” Lexa reminds her. She used to bring it home every week like clockwork. 

“I remember,” Clarke says.

//

Clarke wears the same blue dress. Doesn’t bring flowers, but she does pick Lexa up from her own apartment, knocking on the door like she doesn’t have the keys in her pocket. It makes Lexa smile. 

“I made reservations,” Clarke tells her, in the car. “At three restaurants.” Ethiopian, French, the gourmet burger place downtown that always has a line out the door.

“Ambitious,” Lexa says, taking off her sunglasses and storing them in the glove compartment. 

“I cancelled them all.”

“Fast food isn’t particularly romantic.”

Clarke makes a turn, the wheel sliding smooth in her palms. She remembers bickering with Lexa over the colour of the car, how it felt to see both of their names on it. “You won’t suffer a Big Mac tonight.”

“Chinese,” Lexa guesses.

“Nope.”

“Indian.”

“Wrong again.”

Lexa frowns. “Thai,” she says, like it’s a dirty word. Clarke rolls her eyes. 

“Something new,” she says. “Someplace we’ve never been.”

Lexa tilts her head into the last of the setting sunrays. “I like that.”

Clarke smiles. “Me, too.”

 

She parks and Lexa looks at the restaurant sign. “Clarke,” she says, serious, “are we married?”

Clarke blinks. “What? No. Why?”

“Because I want to divorce you.”

Clarke grins. She swings out of the car and walks around the hood to open the passenger side door. “We’re all family at the Olive Garden, Lexa.”

Lexa sighs. “This is your romantic plan?”

“I have my ways.”

 

“Bottomless salad,” Clarke says, dishing it out for both of them. “Endless breadsticks. All the wine my credit limit can handle. Admit it, I’m batting a thousand right now.”

Lexa takes a long sip of wine. “Ah,” she says, “twelve dollar red.”

“Eat a breadstick, you’re hangry.” Clarke nudges the basket at her. “There’s a footpath near here,” she says, “google says five minutes away on foot, along the river. I thought maybe, after dinner?”

Lexa takes a breadstick, the olive oil leaving her fingers shining. “I’d like that.” She closes the menu with a snap. “I think I’ll have the overpriced eggplant parmesan.”

Clarke scoffs. “You fool, everyone knows you’ve gotta go with the alfredo.”

They get both, split it between them, forks between plates sneaking bites. 

++

Lexa doesn’t let Clarke hide breadsticks in her purse. “Crumbs,” she says, firmly. “Garlic butter. Next time we can bring ziplock.”

Clarke’s face must go besotted, her signature on the check skittering sideways. _Next time_.

 

The river is lit among the railing with christmas lights, white and twinkling, the bridge lit up with LED in the near distance. People pass them, once in awhile: joggers, families with dogs or children, other couples. 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa says, suddenly. 

Clarke blinks. “For what?”

Lexa shrugs. “Most people keep saying how hard this is for me. But I just woke up like this. I don’t feel like I lost things. It must be harder on you.” Clarke stops walking, Lexa going a step further before turning and facing her. “Clarke?”

“I love you,” Clarke says, bluntly. “I can’t remember when--I can’t remember the last time I told you, but I remember the last time you told me. We were on the couch. No, you were, and I came in and I smelled like actual human feces, even though I’d changed into fresh scrubs.” She holds up a hand to wave away Lexa’s clarifying questions. “Emergency room, don’t ask. The important thing is I stank of shit. And you said: ‘Clarke, you literally smell like shit.’”

Lexa narrows her eyes. “Are you paraphrasing?”

“I shit you not,” Clarke says, and it makes Lexa roll her eyes. “So obviously, I crawled into your lap, and you threatened to leave me. So some things have stayed the same.”

“So your romantic story is that you rubbed shit on me and that made me declare my love for you.”

“Don’t interrupt me. My romantic story is that I crawled in your lap _smelling_ like shit, and I kissed you. And you--” Looked at Clarke with her soft eyes and her barely there smile. In the sweats Clarke bought her as a joke gift at Christmas, in one of Clarke’s shirts, in the fuzzy socks because her toes are always cold. Her hand on Clarke’s elbow, fingers stroking, her knee digging into Clarke’s ribs. “You kissed the tip of my nose. And you said you loved me, but if I didn’t throw out those scrubs you’d invite Anya over for dinner every Sunday.” Clarke smiles. “That was the last time you said you loved me.”

“I--” Lexa exhales. “Clarke, I…”

“I know.” Clarke takes her hand, their palms pressed tight. “I know you don’t love me yet. But I still love you, if that’s okay.”

Lexa’s eyes are guarded, her shoulders tight. “And if it isn’t?”

Clarke takes a deep breath. “Then I--I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out. I know I… I don’t want to push you. But I will fight for you.”

“I hurt you.” Lexa hesitates, and Clarke flinches even before she says it: “The other girl, I--”

“We weren’t together,” Clarke says, quickly. “Not to you, I mean. And, I mean, I get it right? So it’s in the past, it--” She steps closer. Waits to see if Lexa will back away. “Kiss me,” she asks, achingly hopeful, her fingers sweaty. 

Lexa leans in. Her fingers are gentle on Clarke’s chin when she tilts it up and cradles her jaw, soft but not as soft as her kiss. Long and slow and their noses brush when she changes to the other side. Clarke’s parted lips and how Lexa’s tongue slips between them. She breaks the kiss, their foreheads pressed together. “Clarke.”

“Did it feel like that, with her? You didn’t go home to her. You came home to me. And you stayed. There’s something here, even if it isn’t love for you, not yet--it will be, someday.”

Lexa waits for only twenty seconds. It feels, to Clarke, like a hundred years of yearning. She tucks Clarke’s hair behind her ear. Their second kiss of the night is hungry, and deep, and breaks only when a passerby whoops, good-natured. She kisses the tip of Clarke’s nose while they giggle. “Take me home, Clarke.”

//

“That’s a nice dress,” Lexa says, in between hard kisses, pinning Clarke to their front door. She drags her teeth down the side of Clarke’s throat. “It’d look better on our bedroom floor.”

Clarke snorts. “Oh, my god.”

“You have to pretend all of these are new lines,” Lexa says, blatantly looking down the top of Clarke’s dress. 

Clarke fumbles in her clutch for her housekeys, Lexa kissing the line of her bare shoulder, her hands on Clarke’s waist and their hips pressed together. “Are you sure,” Clarke manages to ask. “We could, uh--”

Lexa takes the keys from her fingers. She unlocks the door and walks them through it, keeping them touching the whole way through. “Clarke,” she says, very calm except that her pupils are blown and Clarke can feel her heart racing, “Take me to bed.”

//

Lexa is wearing Clarke’s shirt again, and nothing else. She ventures into the kitchen and comes back with a package of the twinkies Clarke didn’t think she knew were in the cabinet while Clarke pees and tugs on a sleep shirt. They spill crumbs on the covers and snuggle up, the dirty sheet tossed aside. “You were different,” Clarke says, while Lexa nuzzles at her neck. “I know you’re wondering, and you were.”

Lexa hesitates. “You didn’t seem to be… adverse to the changes.”

“Of course not,” Clarke assures her. Lexa’s arm is across her waist and she finds Lexa’s fingers with her own, lacing them together. “But I think it’s… it’s something, isn’t it? How lucky I am.”

She feels Lexa blink, the flutter of her eyelashes on the back of Clarke’s neck. “Lucky?”

Clarke wiggles around, turning until they’re face to face, her leg between Lexa’s, her hand on Lexa’s cheek. “To get to fall in love with you twice. Somewhere else we might not have even gotten one happy ending, and here I am, rich with two.”

Lexa smiles. “Let’s just do the two, okay?” It’s not _I love you_ , and it’s not _will you marry me_. Not this night or this week or maybe this year. But someday, someday. They have all the time in the world to get it right.

“You’re the one with the brain damage,” Clarke reminds her, and kisses Lexa’s smile, right in the center while it blooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me! I know other more talented people have written amnesia fic, I hope my short contribution to the genre was worth your time spent reading.
> 
> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really tried anything angsty before? i feel like it's not so much angsty.
> 
> but please, tell me what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


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